


acres of longing, mountains of tenderness

by infinitefire



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: ...more smut, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Smut, This turned out longer than expected, and way out of my comfort zone, idk how i ended up here, might be totally incoherent, no beta we die like men, not edited or even read either, seriously i did not read this before posting, when i started writing these two i said i wasn't gonna write smut, yeah that's pretty much it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23142577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinitefire/pseuds/infinitefire
Summary: Love is not a familiar experience to Calanthe. The feeling of Eist in her arms, proof that she is allowed to have happiness, is overwhelming.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Comments: 9
Kudos: 27





	acres of longing, mountains of tenderness

**Author's Note:**

> i'm super not happy with this but if i start editing i'll lose my nerve and never post it so...here it is
> 
> also minor disclaimer: i know nothing about plants or gardening
> 
> title from "landscape" by florence + the machine

Not long after their marriage, Calanthe begins to shut herself away.

They spend their first night as husband and wife together, rolling around in bed and pleasuring each other until the first rays of sunlight shine through the cracks in the curtains and Calanthe extracts her limbs from the covers and Eist’s body, telling him she always rises with the dawn and must get to business. She responds to his plea for her to indulge herself, just this once, on the day after her wedding, with a roll of her eyes and a suggestive wink.

Eist, unlike Calanthe, stays in bed most of the day, worn out from wedding festivities and bedchamber activities. He gets up in the early afternoon upon being informed that his things have been moved to the king’s chambers, goes to settle in and spends the rest of the day helping the other Skelligens prepare for their return to the Isles. At dinnertime, he is told that Queen Calanthe is busy with work, has chosen to take her meal in her chambers, and has requested not to be disturbed by anyone. He doesn’t think much of it—her position is a demanding one—so he waits until late in the evening to approach her chamber doors.

The guards do not let him in.

Supposing that she must be tired, Eist shrugs it off and returns to his own chambers. After all, he’ll see her again in the morning.

But although he sees her again the next day, and the next, and the next, he never catches her alone, they only ever talk about business, and when he knocks on her door in the evening, he always gets the same answer.

After this goes on for some time, Eist begins to worry. 

“At least tell my wife I wish to speak with her, and if I have done anything to offend her, I offer my deepest regrets,” he tells the guards when they refuse to let him in yet again.

“Sorry, your Majesty, we are under strict orders not to open the doors in your presence.”

Eist runs a hand through his hair. “I can—” he glances down the corridor—“wait around the corner.” A pause. “Please.”

The guards exchange a look and each nod once. Sighing in relief, he turns, rounds the corner, waits.

A distant knock. The guards’ voices echo faintly through the hallway, but he can’t quite make out what they’re saying. He hears Calanthe sigh, then say something back, and his heart beats harder in his chest when he hears one of the guards’ footsteps even though he knows the footsteps themselves mean nothing.

“The queen will speak with you, your Majesty.”

He follows the guard back to Calanthe’s chambers, walks in to find Calanthe in her nightclothes, looking tense. The door closes behind him. She gestures for him to take a seat. He does. She remains standing.

“Calanthe,” he begins, “why—”

“I don’t want any more children, Eist. I can no longer bear anyway, so if that’s why you’re here—”

“I don’t want children either. I’ve seen the immense power that runs through your bloodline, and combined with the angry temperament that runs through mine… I fear what such a child would do.”

Calanthe stares at him for a long moment. “You would do well to remember that I don’t like being interrupted.” Her tone is cold, but not quite threatening.

“I apologize, my queen.”

She nods in acknowledgment. “What  _ do  _ you want?”

Eist looks at her incredulously, at a loss for words.

“You want me.” It’s not a question.

“Is there a problem with that?”

She clenches her fists, grits her teeth. Her defensive body language sparks a flash of worry in Eist.

“Calanthe,” he says, as gently as possible, “our wedding night… did you enjoy yourself?”

“Yes,” she concedes. Her voice is pained. He doesn’t fully believe her.

Even more gently, he asks, “Did you come?”

“Eist,” she sighs irritatedly.

“Please, Calanthe, tell me. I’ve heard women often fake it. I need to know.”

She sighs again. “No, I did not fake it.” The incredulity in her tone makes it convincing enough.

“Then why—”

“I didn’t have to fake it with Roegner either the first time.”

His mouth falls shut.

“Didn’t have to fake it for a while, in fact. Not until after Pavetta was born, and he was drunk on power and desperate for a male heir, and he started getting angry about it. He never hurt me—I suppose he knew what I’d do to him—but he was… quite unpleasant in bed.”

Silence hangs in the air for some time. Calanthe turns away to avoid looking at Eist. However he reacts to this confession, she doesn’t want to see it on his face.

“‘Tis no way to treat a woman,” he says, once her words have finally sunk in. “Let alone a queen.”

She does not turn to face him again, but less to avoid seeing him this time and more to hide her own emotions—surprise, relief, a bit of disbelief. She’s not entirely sure she’s successful hiding those emotions from her voice when she says, “I’d have to kill you if you thought otherwise.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less.”

“And… you still want me?” she asks, quietly, tentatively turning to look at him from the corner of her eye.

“Yes,” he exhales.

She comes closer to him, stares him down. “Even after I tell you that I killed Roegner and lied about him being ill to cover it up?”

“Yes,” he says, without hesitation.

She continues to stare at him, face unreadable.

“Calanthe?”

“I wasn’t expecting that,” she mutters, voice uncharacteristically soft.

“My Calanthe… I married you knowing you are a Lioness, knowing you have slain countless men and you will continue to slay any man who gets in your way. Of course I still want you.”

She sits down beside him.

“Do you still want me?”

“I do,” she whispers, tears gathering in her eyes.

“Calanthe,” he begins, concern furrowing his brow. He lays a hand next to her, palm facing up, an offering. She takes it. “Tell me what troubles you?”

“Nothing,” she mutters vehemently. 

He shakes his head a little, opens his mouth to say something, but she cuts him off by smashing their lips together, keeping him in place with a forceful hand at his jaw.

A few moments pass before she breaks away, withdraws into herself, wiping angrily at her eyes.

“Forgive me for not believing you, my love.”

She exhales, eyes still burning with tears. “Oh, you are too perfect,” she cries in frustration, pulling him to his feet, tearing at his clothes as she pushes him towards the bed. The edge of the mattress hits the back of his knees; he sits on her bed willingly, but grabs her arms to hold her back from taking this any further.

“Calanthe,” he breathes.

Her shoulders fall forward. “I thought you wanted this,” she says irritatedly.

“I do,” he assures her. “But… I don’t just want your body. I want  _ you.  _ I want you to feel safe with me, trust me, tell me how you’re feeling… I want to be with you, always, in whatever way you’ll have me.”

Calanthe runs a hand down his chest, nails scratching lightly. “You’re not  _ helping _ , Eist,” she whispers. There’s a question and an apology at the tip of his tongue, but she cuts him off. “Every word you say just makes me want to fuck you more.” She tugs gently at the fabric of his shirt, biting her lip. “I’ve never…  _ wanted _ … quite this much,” she admits.

“Nor have I,” he says, voice suddenly a bit rough, finally letting the lust shine through in his eyes.

“Then what’s stopping us?”

“I don’t want to spend one night with you only for you to shut me out again.”

Her head falls forward. She closes her eyes, blinks away tears. “Forgive me… I fell back into old habits.”

“I understand.”

They stay there in silence for a while, neither of them daring to make a move.

Finally, he speaks. “Do you still want—”

“Gods, yes,” she says, a spark reappearing in her eyes, and pushes him all the way back onto the bed, pins him there with her body. Her lips crash into his, and her tongue makes its way into his mouth, devouring, conquering; her hips press down hard; but her hands are gentle over his chest and her tears fall onto his face. 

He allows her this, allows her to pour her emotions into kissing him, into the way she claims him with her entire body. Eist welcomes being claimed. Calanthe is already his queen, his wife, his love. He is already hers, and he hopes that she will be his, when she is ready to give herself to him. But that may take time.

For now, he simply holds her, one hand in her hair and the other roaming her back, both exploring her body and providing comfort.

She begins undoing the buttons on his doublet, fumbling a bit at first, but eventually working the garment open. She pulls her mouth away from his slightly, just enough to say, “I want your clothes off.”

Her voice is lower than usual, and despite the phrasing, despite the confidence with which she says it, it’s a request, not a demand. 

A shiver runs down his spine; a wave of heat floods through him. “Yes,” he groans, lifting his upper body slightly to give her room to work the doublet off his shoulders. 

Suddenly, she sits up fully, causing them to press up against each other in just the right way; they both moan at the delicious sensation. His shirts are cast off to the side. As soon as his top half is bare, her hands are on him again, nails scratching lightly, and her mouth is at his neck, licking, sucking, biting, whatever makes him moan, whatever gets his hips to snap up into hers. She grinds down against his hard length with a growl, sinking her teeth into his shoulder, running a nail over a nipple. He gasps out her name, and she relents, moves backwards so she’s sitting on his upper thighs, takes a moment to gaze down at him, smiling a little. The look on her face is full of lust and power, yet contains a hint of softness.

“What is it?” he asks when she stays still a moment too long.

She reaches a hand down to cup his face. “You’re mine,” she says softly.

“Yours,” he whispers back, takes her wrist in his hand, turns his face to press a kiss to her palm.

Her heart skips a beat at the tenderness in the gesture; fresh tears fall from her eyes. She buries her face into his chest. He wraps his arms around her. Soon she’s leaving kisses all over his skin, moving downwards. His breathing gets faster. With a teasing glance back up at his face, she takes the edge of his waistband between her teeth, releases it with a smirk when he groans. 

She rolls off of him to remove the rest of his clothing, which she does quickly, tossing the pile of fabric off to join his shirts. Intending to return to her earlier position on top of him, she begins moving up the bed, but stops abruptly to take in the sight of him, fully naked, laid out before her.

Not for the first time this evening, he shoots her a concerned glance. “Everything alright?”

Slowly, she smiles. Licks her lips. “You’re quite pleasing to look at.”

“As are you, even with clothes. Though if my memory serves me correctly, you’re even more stunning without.”

A pleasant shiver runs through her body at the compliment. The suggestion does not escape her notice.

“I suppose it’s only fair,” she says, a little breathless, “that if yours come off, so do mine.” She pulls her nightdress swiftly over her head, throws it down to the ground, meets Eist’s dark and wanting gaze with an equal amount of lust. Eyes raking across his body, she can see the effect she has on him, and her heartbeat races.

“Like I said,” he mutters, “stunning.”

Tears gather in her eyes again. She moves back on top of him, kisses him, hoping to distract him before he notices. If he does, he doesn’t mention it this time, and Calanthe is grateful for that. Instead, he kisses her back, runs his hands along her sides, making her shiver and clench her thighs around him. She’s slick up against his stomach, and when his wrist brushes against the side of her breast, she moans softly into his mouth and grabs his hand, guides it where she wants before he has a chance to move it away. He rubs his thumb gently over the sensitive skin; she sighs; he applies a bit of pressure; she moans into his mouth again. 

He quickly works out how to touch her, how best to work his hand to give her pleasure, what draws out soft moans and whimpers, what brings on a rush of wetness as she grinds her hips into him. Breathless, she breaks her lips away from his, lifts her head, and she’s crying, desperately panting out his name, hair draped like a curtain around their faces. He slows his hand. 

“Don’t stop,” she mutters. He doesn’t, but continues to move his hand at a slower pace.

“My darling,” he says gently, “please tell me what’s wrong.”

And she doesn’t know how to respond to that, doesn’t know how to explain that  _ nothing’s wrong,  _ everything is so, so  _ right _ and that’s why she’s crying, because things do not go right for Calanthe unless she fights for them, unless she draws her sword and rides into battle and slays a thousand men herself to get what she wants, and having the simple yet so rare pleasure of  _ love _ given to her like this so freely after she resigned herself to never being able to experience it, never allowing herself to experience it even if she was given the chance, is baffling and relieving in a way she doesn’t know how to explain, but she tries—

“I didn’t think… I could ever have this… Eist, please touch me,” she sighs. It’s not quite the explanation she wants to give him, not quite the explanation he deserves, but she hopes it’s enough, because amidst all the sensations and emotions—his hand slowly rubbing her breast; the steady waves of lust coursing through her body; his other hand trailing lightly up and down her side; something terrifying that seems almost like love; his body pressed securely between her thighs; the utterly powerful feeling of knowing he’s hers, just as intense as the feelings of power she’s used to yet somehow different in that all the ferocity is replaced with tenderness—it’s all she can manage.

Even if he doesn’t understand, he does not push her further. She’s grateful.

“Where?” he asks simply.

_ Everywhere,  _ she almost says, but she holds herself back, knowing that’s not what she wants,

not right now, and she guides the hand at her side in between her legs.

He turns his hand so his palm is facing up, gently slides it between her thighs; she lifts herself up slightly to make room, then promptly grinds herself down onto his hand; he rubs his thumb against her clit and she moans; soon she falls apart with a cry that gets lost as she bites her lip, face scrunched up in pleasure.

“A bit on edge, were we?” he asks when she collapses onto him.

“You have no idea,” she growls.

He lifts her face up to his, kisses away her tears, kisses her eyelids when they flutter closed. She hums and absentmindedly presses her hips down, still wanting.

“How do you want me?” he murmurs.

“Mmm, where to start?” she murmurs back, kissing his jaw.

She moves down his body until her face is level with his hips, smirks up at him, licks once along his length, swirls her tongue around the tip before taking it into her mouth and sucking. Eist groans, bucks his hips up into her; she throws an arm across his body to keep him in place and sets her mouth back to work. 

“Calanthe,” he says breathlessly, somewhat reluctantly, “slow… slow down.” She releases him from her mouth, meets his eyes, looking annoyed. “Do you really want this to be over so quickly?”

Calanthe crawls back up his body so they’re face to face again. “I want to devour every inch of you, Eist Tuirseach,” she says into his ear, voice low and seductive. “I want you completely at my mercy.”

“My Calanthe,” he breathes hoarsely, “I am already at your mercy. You can devour me anytime.”

She smiles, takes his bottom lip into her mouth, bites down gently, pulls away at his quiet moan, running her fingers gently over his cheek. Then, slowly, sinks down onto him.

He moans loudly, eyes falling closed, and she takes the chance to wipe away the tears that have come unbidden to her eyes again. The pleasure is intense, but she expected that; what catches her off guard is all the emotion that comes with it. The fact that she can have this, this pure pleasure, whenever she wants, with Eist, Eist, who will never try to control her, who wants her for more than her body and her power, who loves her…

“Calanthe,” he says, eyes open again.

Before he can mention her watering eyes, she leans forward, crashes their lips together, licks her tongue into his mouth, begins rocking her hips against his. She starts out slow despite the overwhelming urge to just fuck him, and she can feel every inch of him hot and hard inside her, and she feels the vibrations of every noise he makes in her mouth, and—

“ _ Gods _ ,” she breathes, tearing her lips away from his and moving to his neck.

He threads his fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp. When he accidentally pulls lightly, it gets him a moan, so he keeps doing it as Calanthe works out just how to work her teeth at his neck to drive him absolutely mad with want. He starts moving his hips in time with hers and quickly matches her rhythm; she bites down hard on his skin and increases her pace with a muttered “fuck,” echoing the moan it draws out of him. 

She sits up slightly, sighs in pleasure at the new angle, takes the hand that falls from her hair and interlaces their fingers and pins it to the pillow next to his head as she looks deeply into his eyes and  _ fuck _ , she was not prepared for the intensity of the trust and love in his gaze. His other hand finds her thigh and her muscles shake at his touch; the hand moves to her hip and there’s barely any pressure behind it but she can feel his arm brushing against the length of her thigh and he’s warm and the look in his eyes reminds her that he’s  _ Eist _ , whom she thinks she might love but in the midst of all this pleasure it’s too hard to tell, all she does know is that he’s hers; his thumb strokes her hipbone and she loses all self-control, slams her eyes shut and fucks him harder and faster until she’s right at the edge, and all it takes is a touch of her finger to her clit for her to finally crash, screaming out in bliss as she comes.

There’s a knock at the door. They freeze.

The knocking continues.

Calanthe rolls off of him and out of bed. He sits up in confusion. She grabs her nightdress and quickly pulls it on, then goes to answer the door.

“Your Majesty, is everything all right? We heard you scream, and you ordered us to—”

“Yes, yes, everything is fine,” she says, a little annoyed, “and I’d like not to be disturbed for the rest of the night.”

“Of course, your Majesty.”

She slams the door shut. Locks it.

When she turns to face Eist again, her face is red. “Idiots,” she sighs.

Eist chuckles.

Calanthe throws her nightdress off, letting it fall to the floor where she stands, and walks back towards the bed, deliberately swaying her hips as she does, smiling at the way Eist’s lips part and his eyes darken with lust.

“Now,” she says, crawling onto his lap, “where were we?”

“You were screaming,” he answers with a smirk.

She runs her fingers across his chest. “Yes, I was hoping you would join me in that when we were interrupted.”

“Why don’t you make me?” he challenges breathlessly.

“I imagine that won’t be too hard.”

“You don’t have to imagine how hard it is,” he remarks with a small chuckle, glancing downwards.

She bites her lip, contemplating how to react to that. She settles on teasing him. Her hand slowly runs down his chest, his stomach, approaching where he wants her but never quite touching him there. “I see. And I imagine it won’t be  _ difficult _ to make you scream. You must have been close when I came. And considering how ‘hard’ ‘it’ is…”

“Is that a challenge?”

She lifts an eyebrow.

“To last as long as possible.”

Calanthe laughs. Then, suddenly, her face turns serious and her voice turns commanding, but not quite in the same way as when she’s exercising her power as queen. “No. I want to see you come undone. Now. Then I want to fuck you again.”

“Then by all means, make me scream.”

She pushes him back down onto the bed, moves to settle herself between his legs, and wraps her lips around his cock. He groans.

The power she has over him is intoxicating, the way he is, again, completely at her mercy, and she feels her eyes begin to water again, but she ignores it and keeps working her mouth relentlessly until he comes, hard, screaming her name.

He looks down at her, sees the tears in the corners of her eyes.

“Calanthe,” he says gently, “come here.”

She moves back up his body and, almost reluctantly, settles into his embrace, resting her head on his shoulder when he kisses her temple and rubs her back comfortingly.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“I know. I wanted to. I enjoyed it.”

“Then why are you crying?”

Her instinct is to snap at him defensively, and perhaps she would have, but there is no accusation in his tone, no implication that she’s lying, merely a question, an attempt to understand. So she answers.

“I enjoy taking control in the bedchamber. Not many men are willing to subject themselves to that, and not many of the men that are, or women for that matter, are willing to do it with me more than once.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

The simple honesty in his statement nearly brings tears back to her eyes. “You’d do that again?”

He half laughs. “Every night.”

She kisses him then, slowly, savoring the soft press of his lips against hers before she deepens it.

“You said something about wanting to fuck me again…”

Calanthe leaves a lingering kiss at the corner of his mouth, smiles into his skin. “What’s the rush? We have all night.”

Eist smiles. He opens his eyes to reveal a familiar spark of desire in them, and she kisses him again, taking the time to explore every corner of his mouth.

“My Calanthe,” he says when she breaks away to look into his eyes, “I want to kiss you.” He does, briefly, on the lips. “Everywhere.”

“Why don’t you?” she murmurs.

“You’re in control. I thought I needed your permission.”

She simply stares for a moment, eyes suddenly damp (damn all these emotions), torn between the desire to smirk at him and the desire to roll over onto her back and tell him to just fuck her. Instead, overwhelmed, she simply moves a hand to lift his chin, moves her lips close to his so they’re almost touching, and says, “Then kiss me.”

He does, so gently it makes her tremble, and, more gently still, adjusts their positions so she’s lying on her back and he’s hovering over her. His lips move down to her neck, and he quickly has her moaning; he kisses her shoulders, her chest; one of her hands comes to rest on the back of his head, playing with his hair, ready to press him closer when his mouth inevitably finds all the right spots on her body. He sucks a nipple into his mouth, swirls his tongue around it, and she arches her back, nails scratching at the back of his head; he hums, and she moans, breathes out his name on a sigh, repeats it like a chant as he works his mouth on her other breast, kisses down her stomach and and up and down her sides, lingering at sensitive spots, sucks at the skin near her hipbones, kisses her thighs, and suddenly his mouth is  _ there _ , and his nose brushes against her clit, and Calanthe is dripping and subconsciously pressing her hips up into him, and oh gods, she  _ wants _ , but—

“Eist,” she whispers breathlessly, “wait.” She’s reluctant to tell him to stop, but as much as she aches to feel his worshipful tongue on her cunt,  _ right now _ , this isn’t exactly how she wants it—right now, she wants to touch him too, make him feel the same fire that’s been burning inside her since he told her he still wanted her after she told him what she did, since he walked into her rooms, since their wedding night.

He stops immediately. “Are you alright?”

“I—I’d rather…” she trails off in frustration, shakes her head. “Come up here?”

He does, concern growing on his face.

“Lie down,” she says, and when he does, she turns herself around and swings a leg over his head so she’s straddling his face, mouth near his cock. “Like this… is this good?” she asks, unable to read his face from her current position.

“Gods, yes.” A moment’s hesitation. His hands come to rest on her hips. “May I taste you?”

Calanthe, who has already begun kissing his thighs, teasing him, pauses. “That’s the idea, Eist,” she drawls. “Don’t tell me you’ve never done this before?” Her question is punctuated with a gasp as he licks a stripe along her outer lips.

“Not this position, no.”

She smiles into his leg. “Oh, you’ve been missing out.” She bites down gently on the skin of his inner thigh, gently laughs at the surprised sound he makes, and brushes her lips against his tip. The noise he makes vibrates through her cunt, and, wanting to feel more of that, she licks her lips, making sure the tip of her tongue makes contact with the tip of his cock, runs her lips up and down his length, repeats the motion with her tongue, keeps alternating between them as it draws out more hums that vibrate deliciously through her and make her drip. Meanwhile, Eist dives right in, licking at her folds, closing his mouth around her and sucking; she moans against him and it makes him twitch. He sucks on her clit and she jerks her hips violently, but his hands are there to steady her and his mouth stays where it is and keeps working her towards the edge and his nose presses up against her folds and Calanthe suddenly realizes how close she is, realizes she’s almost there while Eist is hard and wanting and she’s only been teasing him. So, to even things out, she takes the tip of him into her mouth, starts working her tongue; he moans into her, and it nearly sends her over the edge. 

She takes more of him into her mouth. With the way his moans continue to vibrate against her clit, she comes, moaning around his cock.

He doesn’t stop. He keeps licking at her dripping wet folds, eating up the moisture there, and before long, she comes again, and again, and she sucks on him harder until he comes too, and she swallows, and his head falls back onto the pillow.

Calanthe rolls over to the side, sits up so she can see his face. “Oh,” she sighs, “that was good.”

“You came?”

“You  _ idiot _ ,” she exhales, almost laughs, without any malice, gaze darkening. “More than once.”

Eist smirks, looking very pleased with himself. “Had to make sure.”

“I still…” she trails off. Her breath hitches; her thighs tremble. She still  _ wants _ , desperately, but she doesn’t know how to say it.

“You’re still not satisfied?”

She nods.

“Give me a minute to recover. Then…” He rakes his eyes hungrily over her body, a promise, sending a shiver through her. A whimper might escape her lips. 

An idea strikes her. She leans forward.

“Perhaps if I touch myself, that would speed things along?”

“I think it would.”

She moves backwards on the bed, spreads her legs, positions herself so he can see everything. Leaning back on her elbow, she runs a finger through her folds, lets out a sigh at the relief of her own touch. She brings her finger up to touch her clit, gasps. Then, plunges two fingers between her lips, moans, curls them inside herself, cries out softly, rubs them against the familiar sensitive spot, resists the urge to close her eyes so she can look at Eist. His pupils are blown wide, and though she keeps her eyes on his, she can see the effect she has on other parts of him in her periphery.

“Calanthe,” he says, voice rough and thick with desire.

“Eist,” she sighs, and there are tears in her eyes again. Maybe it’s the power she has over him, to be able to do this to him without even touching him, and how he lets her have that power, how for once she doesn’t have to take it by force. Maybe it’s the way he looks at her, like she’s not just the most beautiful woman on the continent but some kind of goddess, some being higher than himself, rather than merely a desirable woman like so many other men see her as (beautiful and powerful when she wears her crown but no more powerful than any man when she’s naked in the bedchamber), the way he looks at her that somehow makes her want to be looked at. Maybe it’s everything, everything that’s led up to this moment, the fact that this is her Eist lying in her bed and she wants him so much it hurts, and she can finally let herself have him. 

Despite the tears, she continues to look into his eyes, and he gazes back with unwavering lust, and she knows her body, knows how to touch herself, and soon she comes with a cry of his name. 

She melts into the mattress. After a moment, she slowly withdraws her fingers and moves to wipe them on the sheets, but he catches her wrist, pulls her forward until he can take her fingers into his mouth and lick them clean. 

Just like that, she’s burning again, burning with want. She moans, repositions herself so she’s lying next to him, and swings a leg over him, moving on top of him and letting him feel just how wet she is. Kisses him, passionately, not even bothering with the pretense of closed lips, simply diving in with her tongue. The taste of herself in his mouth is not something she expected would arouse her, but gods, it does. She bites down on his lip. He buries his hands in her hair, pulls gently, continues making an absolute mess of it as she kisses him harder.

At some point, she grinds down on him in just the right way that makes him gasp and moan, and she sits up, lifts herself just enough to guide him into her, and meets his gaze as she slowly sinks down onto him, barely controlled whimpers coming from her lips. 

“Calanthe,” he groans.

Breathing heavily, she runs her fingers over his chest, touching her nails to his skin so they scratch lightly. Lips parted, eyes rolled back in pleasure, he rests his hands on her thighs, strokes them gently.

“Eist.” It comes out as a desperate whisper. “Eist,” she says again, slightly louder but no less desperate. He looks her in the eyes, sees tears gathering there. “Eist, oh, Eist… touch me.”

“I am touching you,” he smiles breathlessly.

With a strangled moan, Calanthe grabs both of his hands and drags them up her body until there’s one on each of her breasts, holds them there until he starts gently applying pressure, rolling her nipples between thumb and forefinger then circling a finger around each one in turn. Moaning softly, she shifts her hips upwards slightly and then back down, and he grunts in pleasure as well, so she starts moving her hips as slowly as she can bear, slowly building her pleasure. Her hands grasp at the sheets.

He lets her set the pace, rubs her breasts in time with her slowly moving above him, content with the sensual feeling of her soaking and hot around him, the slow burn as she moves up and down, content to watch the expression of utter bliss on her face and listen to the increasingly wild sounds she makes.

Eventually, she starts moving faster, and he starts rolling his hips up into hers, and gods, the way she says his name…

She keeps building up speed, slowly (she wants to enjoy this, wants to make it last), until finally they’re fucking properly, as hard and fast as she can go, and she brings her hand to her clit and nearly screams out in pleasure. She clenches tight around him, and the feeling and the sound she makes nearly make him lose control.

“Calanthe,” he warns, “I’m close.”

“Mm, gods, me too,” she moans, and continues fucking him until she comes apart with a yell, and he follows with a cry of his own, and she collapses onto his chest.

She takes a moment to catch her breath. Then, carefully, she slides off of him, rolling over and curling into his side. Eist wraps his arm around her, holding her to him. He turns his head to face her and, seeing her eyes still wet, brushes away her tears.

“Sorry for crying so much,” she mutters.

“Don’t.” A kiss between her eyes.

Calanthe exhales. He feels her release some of the tension in her body. “I fear my crying has ruined the fun.”

Eist can’t help but laugh. “Trust me, my love, it hasn’t.”

She looks at him, but doesn’t respond.

“You know, after our first night together, I was rather looking forward to doing this with you again.”

“And?”

A pleased hum. “Better than I could have imagined.”

Calanthe smiles softly, caresses his face, stroking his cheek with her knuckles. “I resolved never to have sex with a man again not long after I started keeping Roegner out of my chambers,” she says, voice unusually quiet, “but then you looked at me like  _ that _ , and you proposed again, and you said you loved me, and I thought, damn it all, I can let myself have one night…”

“And how did that go?” Eist asks carefully.

To his surprise and relief, she laughs. “You made it very difficult to leave it at one night.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. I was quite sore the day after, and I kept catching myself thinking about doing you again, but then I’d remember what I promised myself—only one night—and I ended up in such a foul mood, I didn’t even want to look at you. Once I got out of that mood, I thought I was over it, but then whenever I saw you, all I could think about was how you looked underneath all those clothes, and how  _ good _ that one night was, and I’d barely be able to focus on my duties. It was infuriating.”

He grins at her. “I think you like me,” he teases.

“Oh, shut up,” she says, nudging him playfully and smiling back.

Laughing, he whispers into her ear, “I love you too.”

She kisses him. Stares at him for a long moment, eyes clouded with emotion.

“I’m happy, Eist.” Her smile is uncertain. “I didn’t think I ever would be. I don’t know what to do with it.”

“My darling,” he says, stroking her hair, pressing his lips to her forehead, “you live.”

The first rays of sunlight shine through the window. Illuminated gently by the pale light of the dawn, Calanthe looks ethereal.

“The sun is rising,” Eist remarks. “You look beautiful in the light.”

It was well past midnight when he knocked at her door, and even later when they both decided to fall into bed together, but neither of them intended on doing this all night.

Calanthe gives him a halfhearted smile. “I always look beautiful. And this is when I wake up,” she murmurs bitterly, stifling a yawn.

“Do you have much important business for today?”

“Nothing that can’t be moved to another day, I suppose.”

“Then sleep. You need your rest. I will have all of your appointments today rescheduled for another time.” He moves to get out of bed, draws the curtains so she can sleep without the sun bothering her.

“Will you be coming back to bed?”

“I… have a few matters to attend to. But I will return to wake you up before midday; I know how you hate sleeping into the afternoon.”

She nods, lies back down, falls into a restless sleep.

True to his word, Eist returns to the bedchamber later in the morning, opening some of the curtains slightly to let sunlight in. Calanthe stirs as soon as he opens the door, sits up in bed and wraps her arms around herself, shivering slightly.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “I was cold.”

“It’s a lovely spring day,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Perhaps once you’re dressed you would like to join me for a walk in the gardens?”

A hint of a smile. She’s still apprehensive, still torn between the desire to seek comfort and the desire to pull herself away. But she replies, “I would.”

“I’ll wait by the entrance?”

She nods. He leaves a chaste kiss on her lips before leaving her to prepare herself for the day.

A little less than an hour later, she comes down to meet him, fully dressed apart from her crown, which she has forgone in anticipation of a day off from her duties and responsibilities.

“You look beautiful as ever, my queen,” says Eist.

“Of course I do.”

He smiles. Arm in arm, they walk to the gardens, blossoming and lovely in spring. There is as much confidence as ever in her gait, despite the slight melancholy on her face, and Eist admires her all the more for keeping her head held high after the vulnerability she showed last night, appreciates that she is doing this with him nonetheless. There is so much strength in her openness, and he loves her for it.

He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She gives him a small smile. A bit pained, but genuine nonetheless.

Eventually, he leads her to a secluded spot near a wall of the garden where a stone bench sits underneath a beautifully crafted stone arch. The surrounding earth is covered in a thick blanket of low plants bearing flowers of various hues. Vines dense with berries grow on a wooden lattice planted into the dirt just in front of the wall. On one side of the arch, a fruit tree of some kind lush with leaves and dotted with small white blossoms casts its shadow over the bench, filtering out some of the harsh midmorning sunlight.

Eist gestures for her to sit down, and she does. He sits beside her—slightly closer than he has to, but she doesn’t think much of it.

“These berries are in season,” he says with a glance toward the vine. 

A little bit confused, Calanthe nods.

He closes his eyes. “Feed me.”

“You want me to feed you berries?” she asks, even more confused.

He nods.

“Why?”

“Just humor me, my darling.”

The irritability must come through in her sigh, because he quickly explains, “I want you to know that I trust you.”

She stares at him for a long moment before saying, “Alright.”

As her eyes scan the length of the vine for a good berry to pick, she catches sight of a small, overgrown bush—a very familiar bush, the same one whose berries she used to poison her last king—planted near the end of the lattice, in front of the blossoming tree but behind where Eist is sitting. Just in the right place so that it’s out of his sight, not even in his periphery, but perfectly within her reach. 

Her heart races as she realizes what he’s doing.

Trying to keep the trembling of her hands under control, she plucks one of the larger berries from the vine. It’s juicy and ripe, so much that it nearly bursts between her finger and thumb when she pinches it to tug it down. She takes a moment to memorize the look on Eist’s face—eyes closed, mouth open, somehow completely at peace despite being utterly at her mercy—before gently placing the fruit on his tongue. His lips close around the tip of her finger; he brushes the tip of his tongue deliberately up against it before she pulls her hand away to let him chew. She bites back a moan.

He keeps his eyes closed as he eats, and she stares at him intently, watching the motion of his jaw, the lump moving down his throat as he swallows. He licks his lips when he’s done, and her breathing accelerates. When he opens his eyes, there’s that smile on his face, that infuriating, infuriatingly handsome smile, playful and wicked, yet somehow without the smallest hint of malice. 

“Close your eyes,” he whispers.

Heartbeat still racing, she closes her eyes. Suddenly, she’s much more aware of every other sensation, of the sounds of birds chirping and leaves being rustled by the breeze, of the way the breeze feels on what little bare skin she has exposed and how it blows strands of hair across her face and causes her skirts to dance and flow around her legs, of the scents of the garden in spring, of Eist’s proximity and warm presence beside her. She hears the  _ snap _ of a berry off its stem, close to her ear, almost directly to the side—exactly where the poisonous bush is not.

She releases some of the tension in her shoulders.

“Open your mouth.”

Tentatively, she parts her lips slightly. He presses the berry up against them, nudges her chin downwards with his thumb until her mouth is open wide enough for him to place the berry between her teeth. She bites down, very gently, on his two fingers, runs the tip of her tongue slowly across the pads, closes her lips around them, and sucks, teasing him like he did her in retaliation. 

At the sound of his ragged breathing and soft grunt, she releases his fingers, satisfied, and smirks. 

She bites down on the berry. It tastes sweet and fruity, followed by an intense tang; the juices burst out at the slightest pressure and flow through her mouth while the seeds crunch between her teeth.

Eyes still closed, she reaches out blindly until her hand meets his chest, curls her fingers around the fabric of his tunic, and letting her head tilt to the side, pulls him in for a kiss. Partly because of how aroused she is by now. Partly because Eist is right: trust is difficult for her with the way her last marriage ended on top of the general occupational hazards of being queen, and she’s not taking any chances, damnit—if he did just poison her (though the rational part of her knows he couldn’t have, and he would never), and this is how she dies, then the least she can do is take him down with her.

When they break away, the berry having been fully consumed between the two of them, she lets out a deep exhale and slides closer to him on the bench, leans into his side, rests her head on his shoulder after pressing a kiss there. He wraps an arm around her; she rubs her hand idly up and down his back. Reaching across his lap into hers, he offers his palm, and she takes his hand, entwines their fingers.

In his arms, Calanthe feels safe, serene, blissful. Even after she’s been so vulnerable with him.  _ Especially _ after she’s been so vulnerable with him. Because he is still here. He has not tried to flee of his own accord, like a wise man, or stayed to challenge her and given her no choice but to dispose of him violently, like a fool. Eist simply stayed. Stayed and listened and still gave her everything, and gods, she’s glad he’s hers.

Perhaps, she thinks, she wouldn’t mind being his as well.

A finger of the hand on his back begins tracing patterns, tracing letters. She hears the hitch in his breath when he recognizes the words.

_ I love you. _

She smiles up at him; he turns his head to smile lovingly back. They kiss, softly, briefly, a mere press of lips, but she keeps leaning back in for more, and soon she’s unlaced their fingers, brought her hand up to caress his jaw, climbed onto his lap; his free hand is wandering up and down her side, sending tingles through her spine, settling on her breast, making her hum into his lips and press her hips into his; the arm around her shoulders has loosened so he can stroke his fingers through her hair.

“Calanthe,” he mutters breathlessly.

“Yes?”

He shakes his head slightly, at a loss for words. “I love you.”

Calanthe presses their lips back together, kissing him harder than before; she parts her lips, licks his until he opens his mouth, tastes the berries on his tongue, presses hers deeper into his mouth until a low sound reverberates through his chest and throat. Suddenly, she tightens her arms around him, presses their bodies closer together, grinding into him where he’s already hard. Almost involuntarily, she breaks away from the kiss to throw her head back and let out a breathy, shaking sigh; he takes the opportunity to attach his mouth to her neck, going straight for a sensitive spot; she cries out softly, buries a hand in his hair.

When she pulls his head away to try and kiss him again, there are tears in her eyes, and he stops immediately. “Are you alright, my darling?”

“I’m fine,” she says unconvincingly, voice and body trembling. Then, to his surprise, breaks out into a smile. “I’m wonderful.”

She rests her forehead against his, and he smiles too, rubbing a hand over her back as her body shakes with joyful sobs. He kisses her tears away, then kisses her, slowly, deeply, delighting in the feeling of her in his arms.

She takes a minute to rest her head on his shoulder again, to wait for the tides of emotion to recede, until she’s hyper-aware of her arousal again, and his, and her eyes darken, and she presses their foreheads back together and whispers, “Touch me.”

Eist simply holds her gaze, eyes darkening to reflect hers, wanting, but somewhat uncertain.

Still trembling, she gathers her skirts up on her thighs, takes his hand, and guides it between her legs. Her thighs clench and shake as his middle finger delicately strokes across her lips; he brings his other hand to her waist to steady her; she wraps one arm around his neck and holds his upper arm with her other hand. It’s just a way for her to hold onto something, but with the tightness of her grip, she can feel the muscles moving in his arm as his hand pleasures her even through the layers of fabric, and it draws a whimper from her throat.

Realizing there are fresh tears in her eyes, he slows his fingers, but Calanthe protests—“No, don’t stop”—and he continues, and she sighs. His thumb finds the right spot, and she breathes out a soft “oh,” so he keeps rubbing there, getting him a low, drawn-out hum and causing Calanthe to press down into his hand.

“Eist,” she whispers, “please…”

“What do you want, my darling?”

“I want your fingers inside me.”

He dips one, two fingertips between her folds. Delights in how wet she is. Slowly pushes a finger all the way in.

“More.”

He pulls his finger out, pushes back in with two. She moans. His fingers curl inside her; he rubs the spot that makes her eyes roll back in pleasure. The angle at which she rocks her hips into his touch pushes his wrist up against him in a way that makes him moan her name.

“Eist…  _ fuck, _ ” she sighs out breathlessly, and captures his bottom lip between hers, bites down, begins riding his fingers. He groans, eyes falling halfway shut, all the combined sensations nearly making him dizzy, but he forces himself to keep his eyes open for the privilege of seeing her like this.

Soon enough, she comes undone, inner muscles clenching around his fingers, hand tightening around his arm, nails digging into his upper back, tears falling from her eyes, his name falling from her lips. 

Loosening her grip on his arm, she taps lightly for him to withdraw his fingers. He does.

“Are you alright, my darling?”

Out of breath, she nods.

“Was that good?”

She nods more vigorously, a smile tugging at her mouth.

He smiles then, sinfully, brings his fingers to his lips, takes a deep inhale, and sucks them into his mouth.

Calanthe’s mouth falls open. Her eyes widen, darken. She drops her hands to his lap so she can open his pants, then, mirroring him, takes two of her fingers in her mouth with a smirk, makes a show of sucking on them, and releases them only to drop her hand back to his lap and stroke him with her wet fingers.

Eist goes wide-eyed at this, and when he removes his own fingers from his mouth to gape at her, breath ragged, she grins at him and takes the opportunity to capture his lips in a slow, passionate kiss that quickly becomes desperate as she tastes the berries and herself on his tongue and begins using her whole hand. He moans into her mouth and she picks up the pace of her hand, uses her free hand to move the high collar of his tunic aside, breaks the kiss to leave little marks on his neck beside the ones from the night before. She doesn’t relent until he breathlessly sighs out her name, to which she responds by looking him in the eyes as she readjusts her position so she can slide down onto him.

Her cunt is soaked around his cock, and her eyes are beginning to dampen as well, but she doesn’t look away.

“Calanthe,” he moans, almost reverently.

“Eist,” she whispers with just as much reverence in her voice.

He wraps his arms around her. She plays with the hairs at the back of his neck. They rest their foreheads together, lean into each other’s embrace. Eventually, she starts rocking her hips and so does he; heavy breaths mingle; some of her tears spill over onto her cheeks; he kisses them away; one of them lets out a soft noise and suddenly their lips are pressed together again and the movements of their hips become desperate.

When they’ve both come, him with a reverent whisper of her name and her with a muffled cry, she buries her face in the crook of his neck, fingers dancing with the curls at the back of his neck, and mutters into his skin, “Thank you. For… all of this.”

“My pleasure,” he responds, and Calanthe can’t help the snort that comes out. If her hands weren’t otherwise occupied, she’d slap him playfully in the face.

“Want some more?” she jokes, lifting her head to face him again.

He raises his eyebrows. “If you’re offering.”

“Well, we have the day off, so I suggest we take advantage.” She narrows her eyes. “That is, if you can keep up.”

“Is that a challenge?”

She smirks in response.

“In that case, I think we should take this back to the bedchamber.”

“Take me to bed, then, Eist Tuirseach,” she whispers seductively in his ear.

“Yes, my queen.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- if you've read all 8.8k of this then thank you so much and i love you  
\- if you have opinions (good or bad) (or music recs, i need to get my fic titles from somewhere) please tell me! comments fuel my bullshit  
\- if you want to come yell at/with me or give me writing suggestions my tumblr is firesofthestars  
\- again, thank you for reading and i love you


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